You see, that's why I don't go to Vegas, with all its bright lights. I'd live on opulence, but what would I do if some Elvis-looking guy came up to me? Saying, are you lonesome tonight, baby? My hand would shake and he'd see that I'm into for him. And he'd play me like a fool till I'd get suspicious minds and go crazy. He'd dump me and I'd die of grief. So I'd sit in the Billionera in the Old Town and be under the spell of little old men like Mr. Lis[1]. Only they still know the old love me tender, that's why they put the token in so easily.
[1] Viorel Lis is a Romanian politician.
Alexandra Buhudini
Her tokens were the souls of the damned. She drew them from the sternum framed by the breasts in which she boiled the skimmed milk with which she fed the dead. One by one, the spirits of the underworld entered through the slit in the machine and crawled over lemons, cherries, melons, and sevens, turning the gambling game into the Garden of Eden. Three apples appeared on the screen, under the Death's staring, powdery eyes. The machine pulled her into it. Here a golden-horned angel welcomed her, nestled between her thighs, and her vulva cried out a wail of myrrh.
Ligia Dumitrescu
Tomorrow they will find his mutilated body. A policeman will look into the case carelessly, rather careful not to get his shoes dirty in the stain that has already made a purplish puddle on the floor. A maid will curse her luck. Not the first time she's had to clean up after stranded wrecks in the city that never sleeps. One less stranger. Somewhere, a new breath will have already taken its place in the dizzying whirl of life. That was all. She stood then, staring at herself in the mirror, the pistol on the sink. A living corpse. Still.
(Translated by Corina-Alexandra Belu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.